TRIBUTE 


WILLIAM   CULLEN    BRYANT 


BY    ROBERT    C  jWATERSTON, 


THE    MEETING    OF    THE    MASSACHUSETTS    HISTORICAL 
SOCIETY,  JUNE  13.   1878. 


TRIBUTE 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


BY 

. 

ROBERT   C.  WATERSTON, 

AT 
THE    MEETING   OF    THE 

MASSACHUSETTS    HISTORICAL    SOCIETY, 
JUNE  13,  1878. 


lit!)  an  Slppenbix. 


BOSTON: 

PRESS   OF  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON. 

1878. 


AT  THE  MEETING 

OF  THE 
MASSACHUSETTS  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY, 

JUKE  13,  1878, 
THE  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  SOCIETY,  THE  HON.  ROBERT  C.  WINTHROP, 

ANNOUNCED,    WITH    IMPRESSIVE   AKD    APPROPRIATE    REMARKS, 

THE  DEATH  OF  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT, 
OFFERING  THE  FOLLOWING  RESOLUTIONS  : 

Extract  from  Mr.  Wintlirop's  Remarks. 

The  death  of  the  venerable  William  Cullen  Bryant  has  been  announced 
in  the  public  papers  at  too  late  a  moment  before  our  meeting  this  morning 
to  allow  any  of  us  to  speak  of  it,  or  to  speak  of  him,  as  we  should  desire  to 
speak.  But,  as  we  are  not  likely  to  hold  another  meeting  for  several 
months,  I  am  unwilling  to  postpone  all  notice  of  so  impressive  an  event. 
A  native  of  our  own  State,  and  long  an  Honorary  Member  of  our  own 
Society,  his  death  may  well  find  its  earliest  mention  here,  even  though  our 
tribute  be  brief  and  inadequate.  As  a  poet*  as  a  journalist,  as  a  patriot,  as 
a  pure  and  upright  man,  living  to  an  almost  patriarchal  age,  yet  never 
losing  his  interest  or  relaxing  his  efforts  in  whatever  might  advance  the 
honor  or  welfare  of  his  fellow-men,  he  has  won  for  himself  an  imperishable 
remembrance  on  the  page  of  history. 

No  one,  certainly,  as  long  as  our  language  shall  be  read  or  spoken,  will 
forget  the  author  of  "  Thanatopsis,"  "The  Water-Fowl,1'  and  the  "Land 
of  Dreams;1'  or  ever  cease  to  be  grateful  for  those  inspiring  and  exquisite 
strains. 

His  loss  is,  indeed,  primarily  and  peculiarly,  that  of  our  great  sister 
city  and  State,  with  whose  interests  and  renown  he  has  been  for  so  many 
years  identified.  But  his  name  and  fame  have  long  ceased  to  be  local,  and 
his  death  is  nothing  less  than  a  national  bereavement. 


M102092 


RESOLUTIONS. 

Resolved,  By  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society,  that  in  the  death  of  our 
distinguished  Honorary  Member,  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT,  our  country  has 
lost  a  patriotic  and  noble  citizen,  the  press  an  accomplished  and  powerful  jour 
nalist,  and  American  literature  one  of  its  earliest,  purest,  and  most  enduring 
ornaments. 

Resolced,  That  while  we  remember  with  pride  that  he  was  born  in  Massa 
chusetts,  and  educated  at  one  of  our  own  colleges,  our  warmest  sympathies  in 
this  bereavement  are  due,  and  are  hereby  offered,  to  the  scholars  and  to  the 
whole  people  of  New  York,  with  whom  he  has  been  so  long  and  so  eminently 
associated,  and  to  whom  his  genius  and  his  fame  have  been  ever  so  justly 
dear. 

Resolved,  That  these  Resolutions  be  communicated  to  the  New  York  Histori 
cal  So.-iety,  with  the  assurance  that  our  hearts  are  with  them  in  lamenting  the 
loss,  and  in  doing  honor  to  the  memory,  of  their  illustrious  associate  and  vice- 
president. 

Resolved,  That  a  Committee  of  five  be  appointed  by  the  chair  to  represent 
this  Society  at  the  funeral  of  Mr.  Bryant. 

THE  RESOLUTIONS  WERE  SECONDED  BY  THE 
REV.  R.  C.  WATERSTON, 

AT   THE   CLOSE   OF    WHOSE   REMARKS    THEY   WERE    ADOPTED, 

AND  THE  PRESIDENT  APPOINTED  AS  THE  COMMITTEE  TO 

ATTEND  MR.  BRYANT'S  FUNERAL, 

PROFESSOR  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 
PROFESSOR  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 
REV.  ROBERT  C.  WATERSTON. 
HON.  RICHARD  FROTHINGIIAM. 
MR.  DELANO  A.  GODDARD. 


REMARKS   OF   REV.   R.    C.   WATERSTON. 


TT  is  difficult  to  express  the  sense  of  loss  which  comes  to  us 
in  the  death  of  William  Cullen  Bryant.  He  has  so  long 
been  the  object  of  our  veneration  and  love,  that  he  seemed  to 
have  become  an  essential  part  of  our  life.  Few  of  us  can  re 
member  when  his  name  did  not  stand  pre-eminent  in  our  litera 
ture.  It  is  now  more  than  sixty  years  since  his  "  Thanatopsis  " 
was  published,  which  at  once  gained  a  reputation  that  has 
never  since  been  questioned.  From  that  time,  his  active  pub 
lic  career  has  kept  his  name  constantly  before  the  community, 
and  always  on  the  side  of  patriotism,  justice,  and  humanity. 
With  an  inflexible  purpose,  he  has  vindicated  what  he  felt  to 
be  right.  Whatever  seemed  to  him  connected  with  the  best 
interests  of  humanity  was  dear  to  his  heart.  There  was 
hardly  an  enterprise  associated  with  human  progress  with 
which  his  name  had  not  become  identified.  Venerable  in 
age,  he  still  had  the  fresh  energy  of  youth  ;  and,  though  he 
had  arrived  at  a  period  of  life  when  most  men  feel  that  they 
may  retire  from  active  service,  he  sought  no  relaxation  from 
duty,  lie  asked  no  exemption  from  the  weight  of  personal 
responsibility.  With  breadth  of  thought  and  profoundness 
of  conviction,  he  could  adapt  himself  to  the  immediate  wants 
of  the  time,  bringing  to  each  occasion  what  was  most  needed. 
Thus,  when  from  the  midst  of  such  activity  he  has  been  sud- 


6 


denly  taken  away,  it  is  as  if  a  guiding  star  had  been  stricken 
from  the  firmament. 

Mr.  Bryant  was  a  scholar,  yet  his  life  was  not  passed  either 
in  studious  retirement,  or  even,  in  a  scholastic  way,  among 
books.  He  was  familiar  with  various  languages,  ancient  and 
modern,  retaining  with  critical  exactness  his  classical  knowl 
edge,  yet  his  hours  were  habitually  occupied  with  the  prac 
tical  business  of  the  time,  political  economy,  finance,  and  the 
changing  aspects  of  national  affairs.  He  was  an  ardent  lover 
of  Nature,  yet  his  days  were,  for  the  most  part,  associated 
with  the  crowded  thoroughfares  of  a  populous  city.  His 
poetry  was  generally  calm  and  contemplative,  yet  he  was  in 
daily  contact  with  the  most  exciting  controversies  of  the 
period,  the  contentions  of  conflicting  parties,  and  the  agitating 
questions  that  threatened  to  disturb  communities,  and  even 
to  divide  the  Nation.  It  was  not  so  much  what  he  was  in 
any  one  phase  of  his  character,  as  in  the  perfect  balance  of 
all  his  powers,  the  manner  in  which  every  faculty  was  brought 
into  harmonious  action,  and  the  noble  spirit  with  which  they 
were  uniformly  and  persistently  devoted  to  the  public  good. 

We  may  have  had  elsewhere  as  faithful  citizens  ;  as  industri 
ous  journalists ;  as  ripe  scholars;  —  and  poets,  it  may  be,  equally 
gifted  and  inspired,  but  Avhere  have  we  had  another  who  has 
combined  in  his  own  person  all  these  ?  In  him  a  rare  com 
bination  of  extraordinary  qualities  was  united  ;  —  strength 
and  gentleness;  elevation  of  thought  and  childlike  simplicity; 
genius,  common-sense,  and  practical  wisdom.  Where  there 
were  controverted  questions,  whether  men  agreed  with  him 
or  not,  they  never  for  an  instant  doubted  his  nobleness  of 
purpose.  It  was  universally  acknowledged  that  his  integrity 
was  as  immovable  as  a  mountain  of  adamant ;  and  that,  in  all 
his  efforts,  he  had  no  motive  less  elevated  than  the  public 
good . 

Bryant,  the  acknowledged  pioneer,  lived  to  become  also 
the  patriarch,  in  our  world  of  letters;  while  those  who  have 


entered  the  field  at  a  later  day,  and  have  sinca  risen  to  a 
world-wide  reputation,  have  never  been  reluctant  to  do  him 
homage.  Familiar  as  he  has  been  with  the  literature  of  other 
countries,  no  one  could  mistake  the  nationality  of  his  writings. 
As  there  are  fruits  which  take  their  flavor  from  the  soil  in 
which  they  grow,  so  what  he  has  written,  by  its  bloom  and 
aroma,  testifies  to  the  land  of  its  birth.  Not  only  the  legends 
and  traditions  of  his  country,  but  its  scenery  and  spirit, 
through  him  have  become  familiar.  He  has  identified  him 
self  with  our  fields  and  forests.  The  sky,  the  stream,  and 
the  prairie,  speak  of  him.  The  winds  whisper  his  name,  and 
in  the  crowded  street  he  is  remembered.  The  gentian  and  the 
violet  ever  blend  the  thought  of  him  Avith  their  fragrance. 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  summer  and  winter,  sing  his  praises. 
The  very  freshness  of  Nature  comes  to  us  in  all  he  wrote. 
The  breath  of  the  woods,  the  atmosphere  of  the  hills,  the  light 
of  the  sun  and  the  stars,  are  interwoven  with  his  spirit.  His 
love,  his  hope,  his  faith,  his  exalted  thought,  his  rapt  devo 
tion,  are  identified  with  them  all. 

While  I  speak,  I  am  carried  back  in  thought  to  pleasant 
days  enjoyed  with  Mr.  Bryant  at  Heidelberg.  As  we  walked 
together  under  the  shadow  of  the  "  Rent  Tower ; "  in  the 
famous  garden  of  "  Elizabeth,"  wife  of  the  Count  Palatine  ; 
and  along  the  "Terrace,"  which  commands  one  of  the  most 
magnificent  views  in  Europe,  I  felt  that,  admirable  as  were 
the  choicest  of  Mr.  Bryant's  productions,  he  was  himself  far 
more  than  the  best  that  had  proceeded  from  his  pen.  In  him 
there  was  robust  nobleness,  with  quiet  repose ;  variety  and 
completeness  ;  intuitive  insight,  and  affluence  of  knowledge. 
Not  under  any  circumstance  was  there  the  faintest  approach 
to  ostentation  or  display,  but  as  occasion  required,  all  needed 
information  was  at  hand,  and  always  in  the  most  agreeable 
manner.  Whatever  else  there  was,  you  were  sure  of  substan 
tial  reality.  Mr.  Bryant  was  a  man  of  close  observation  and 
exactness.  With  regard  to  trees  and  plants,  he  had  the  accu- 


racy  of  a  naturalist.  The  history  and  character  of  every 
shrub  were  familiar  to  him,  whiler  with  these  was  a  sense  of 
beauty  and  harmony  that  quivered  through  his  whole  being, 
an  emotion  all  the  deeper  because  of  its  calmness.  Outward 
objects  were  reflected  from  his  mind  like  images  in  a  tranquil 
lake,  but  not  like  those  destined  to  pass  away.  He  absorbed 
them,  and  they  became  his  own.  His  eye  embraced  every 
thing;  —  the  stupendous  ruin, the  winding  river, the  encircling 
mountains,  the  motion  of  birds,  their  varied  songs,  the  clouds 
sailing  through  the  heavens,  and  each  floating  shadow  on 
the  landscape.  Nothing  escaped  him. 

Both  at  Heidelberg  and  along  the  Neckar,  Aye  climbed  the 
hills,  wandering  among  ancient  castles  and  picturesque  ruins, 
and  bringing  away  memories  never  to  be  forgotten.  I  felt 
then,  as  I  do  now,  that  no  man  living  could  be  more  keenly 
alive  to  the  most  delicate  aspects  of  external  nature ;  or  could 
interpret,  with  truer  wisdom,  her  hidden  meaning. 

I  had  the  privilege  also  of  being  with  Mr.  Bryant  at  Naples. 
He  first  showed  me  the  grave  of  Virgil.  We  looked  from 
that  beautiful  city  out  over  its  world-renowned  Bay.  I  list 
ened  to  his  inspiring  words  upon  Italy,  for  whose  progressive 
future  he  cherished  an  unfailing  hope.  But  there  were  other 
thoughts  which  pressed  upon  his  mind.  Mrs.  Bryant,  who 
was  journeying  with  him,  had  become  suddenly  prostrated  by 
serious  illness.  He  had  watched  over  her  through  many 
anxious  weeks.  This  cloud,  which  had  thrown  its  ominous 
shadow  over  his  pathway,  seemed  now  lifting,  and  bursts  of 
sunshine  filled  his  heart  with  joy.  At  this  time,  April  23, 
1858,  I  received  from  him  a  note,  stating  that  there  was  a 
subject  of  interest  upon  which  he  would  like  to  converse  with 
me.  On  the  following  day,  the  weather  being  delightful,  we 
walked  in  the  "  Villa  Reale,"  the  royal  park  or  garden  over 
looking  the  Bay  of  Naples.  Never  can  I  forget  the  beautiful 
spirit  that  breathed  through  every  word  he  uttered,  the 
reverent  love,  the  confiding  trust,  the  aspiring  hope,  the  deep- 


9 


rooted  faith.  Every  thought,  every  view,  was  generous  and 
comprehensive.  Anxiously  watching,  as  he  had  been  doing,  in 
that  twilight  boundaiy  between  this  world  and  another,  over 
one  more  precious  to  him  than  life  itself,  the  divine  truths  and 
promises  had  come  home  to  his  mind  with  new  power.  He 
stated  that  he  had  never  united  himself  with  the  Church,  which 
with  his  present  feelings  he  would  most  gladly  do.  He  then 
asked  if  it  would  be  agreeable  to  me  to  come  to  his  room  on 
the  morrow  and  administer  the  Communion,  adding  that,  as  he 
had  not  been  baptized,  he  desired  that  ordinance  at  the  same 
time.  The  day  following  was  the  Sabbath,  and  a  most  heav 
enly  day.  In  fulfilment  of  his  wishes,  in  his  own  quiet  room, 
a  company  of  seven  persons  celebrated  together  the  Lord's 
Supper.  With  hymns,  selection  from  the  Scripture,  and  devo 
tional  exercises,  we  went  back  in  thought  to  the  "  large  upper 
room,"  where  Christ  first  instituted  the  Holy  Supper  in  the 
midst  of  his  Disciples.  Previous  to  the  breaking  of  bread, 
William  Cullen  Bryant  was  baptized.  With  snow-white  head 
and  flowing  beard,  he  stood  like  one  of  the  ancient  Prophets, 
and  perhaps  never  since  the  days  of  the  Apostles  has  a  truer 
disciple  professed  allegiance  to  the  Divine  Master. 

Had  he  not  this  very  hour  of  the  Holy  Communion  in  his 
thought,  when,  in  his  later  published  Poems  (embracing  in 
spiritual  sympathy  the  whole  Christian  Church),  he  speaks 
of  — 

"  The  consecrated  bread,  — 
The  mystic  loaf  that  crowns  the  board. 
When,  round  the  table  of  their  Lord, 

Within  a  thousand  temples  set, 
In  memory  of  the  bitter  death 
Of  Him  who  taught  at  Nazareth, 

His  followers  are  met, 
And  thoughtful  eyes  with  tears  are  wet, 

As  of  the  Holy  One  they  think, 
The  glory  of  whose  rising,  yet 

Makes  bright  the  grave's  mysterious  brink." 
2 


10 


After  the  service,  while  standing  at  the  window,  looking  out 
with  Mr.  Bryant  over  the  Bay,  smooth  as  glass,  (the  same 
water  over  which  the  Apostle  Paul  sailed,  in  the  ship  from 
Alexandria,  when  he  brought  Christianity  into  Italy),  the 
graceful  outline  of  the  Island  of  Capri  relieved  against  the 
sky,  —  with  that  glorious  scene  reposing  before  us,  Mr.  Bryant 
repeated  the  lines  of  John  Leyden,  the  Oriental  scholar  and 
poet ;  lines  which,  he  said,  had  always  been  special  favorites 
of  his,  and  of  which  he  was  often  reminded  by  that  holy  tran 
quillity  which  seems,  as  with  conscious  recognition,  to  charac 
terize  the  Lord's  Day. 

"With  silent  awe,  I  hail  the  sacred  morn, 

That  scarcely  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are  still ; 

A  soothing  calm  011  every  breeze  is  borne, 

A  graver  murmur  echoes  from  the  hill, 

And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn. 
Hail,  light  serene!     Hail,  sacred  Sabbath  morn  !  " 

Never  did  poet  have  a  truer  companion,  a  sincere!  spiritual 
helpmate  than  did  Mr.  Bryant  in  his  wife.  Refined  in  taste, 
and  elevated  in  thought,  she  was  characterized  alike  by 
goodness  and  gentleness.  Modest  in  herself,  she  lived  wholly 
for  him.  His  welfare,  his  happiness,  his  fame,  were  the  chief 
objects  of  her  ambition.  To  smooth  his  pathway,  to  cheer 
his  spirit,  to  harmonize  every  discordant  element  of  life,  were 
purposes  for  the  accomplishment  of  which  no  sacrifice  on  her 
part  could  be  too  great.  And  nothing  could  surpass  the  de 
votion  Avhich  he  extended  to  her,  as  marked  to  the  very  close 
of  her  life,  as  in  the  first  year  of  their  union.  Never  did 
Dante  or  Petrarch  love  more  profoundly,  or  pay  more  immor 
tal  homage  to  the  object  of  their  love. 

In  the  early  freshness  of  her  youthful  bloom,  Mr.  Bryant 
had  sung  :  — 

"  Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child, 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 


11 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  impressed, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast ; 
The  holy  peace,  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes,  is  there." 

Where  in  the  whole  history  of  literature  can  be  found  a 
more  exquisite  tribute  than  that  paid  to  her  in  his  lines  on 
the  "Future  Life"? 

"  How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 
The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 

If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not ; 
Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 

In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought." 

On  her  recovery  from  illness  at  Naples,  Mr.  Bryant  wrote 
the  touching  lines  on  "  The  Life  that  is." 

Thou,  who  so  long  hast  pressed  the  couch  of  pain, 
Oh  welcome,  .welcome  back  to  life's  free  breath;  — 

To  life's  free  breath  and  day's  sweet  light  again, 
From  the  chill  shadows  of  the  gate  of  death ! 

Twice  wert  thou  given  me;  once  in  thy  fair  prime, 
Fresh  from  the  fields  of  youth,  when  first  we  met, 

And  all  the  blossoms  of  that'hopeful  time 

Clustered  and  glowed  where'er  thy  steps  were  set  ; 

And  now,  in  thy  ripe  autumn,  once  again 

Given  back  to  fervent  prayers  and  yearnings  strong, 

From  the  drear  realm  of  sickness  and  of  pain 

When  we  had  watched,  and  feared,  and  trembled  long. 

Now  may  we  keep  thee  from  the  balmy  air 
And  radiant  walks  of  heaven  a  little  space, 

Where  He,  who  went  before  thee  to  prepare 
For  His  meek  followers,  shall  assign  thy  place. 

Since  Mr.  Bryant's  return  to  this  country,  now  twenty 
years  ago,  I  have  had  pleasant  intercourse  with  him,  both 
at  Roslyn  and  Cummington,  seeing  him  in  the  quiet  enjoy 
ment  of  home,  surrounded  by  his  family  and  amid  the  delight- 


12 


ful  companionship  of  books.  Nowhere  did  Mr.  Bryant  appear 
more  attractive  ;  his  hearty  cordiality  and  genial  manners 
making  every  one  feel  at  ease,  while  his  conversation,  both 
natural  and  playful,  sparkled  with  brilliancy ;  serious  and 
weighty  when  occasion  required,  and  overflowing  with  merri 
ment  when  that  was  in  season.  Never  was  he  more  charming 
than  when,  throwing  aside  formal  reserve,  he  would  relate 
with  a  glow  of  humor  pleasant  incidents,  bringing,  with  graphic 
power,  each  scene  depicted  vividly  before  his  hearers.  On 
such  occasions  he  would  at  times  reproduce  the  voice  and 
manner  of  others  with  an  ability  absolutely  startling  ;  Words 
worth,  Rogers,  Combe,  Webster,  seemed  to  be  in  your  pres 
ence;  so  individual  were  the  accents,  you  could  hardly  believe 
it  was  not  themselves  speaking. 

One  day  at  Roslyn  he  appeared  in  the  full  dress  obtained 
at  Damascus,  slippers,  turban,  and  flowing  robes ;  when, 
seating  himself  after  the  manner  of  the  East,  he  gave  an 
interesting  account  of  his  experience  in  S}rria  and  Palestine. 
Fortunate  would  have  been  the  artist  who  could  have  trans 
ferred  the  scene  to  canvas  !  At  different  times  he  repeated 
poems  of  which  he  was  the  author,  in  a  low  melodious  voice, 
revealing  often,  with  gentle  emphasis,  unexpected  depths  of 
meaning.  In  such  recitations  there  seemed  no  effort  of  mem 
ory.  The  thought  was  not  something  apart  from  himself, 
but  a  living  portion  of  his  nature,  through  which  his  life 
throbbed.  Perhaps  no  one,  who  has  not  thus  heard  them, 
can  fully  comprehend  their  true  vitality. 

At  Cummington,  the  place  of  his  birth,  it  was  deeply  inter 
esting  to  go  with  him  over  scenes  associated  with  his  early 
days.  He  showed  me  the  spot  where  the  school-house  stood, 
in  which  he  learned  his  first  lessons ;  and  the  grassy  bank 
over  whose  green  slope  he  remembered  to  have  romped  and 
rolled  when  a  child.  We  visited  together  the  "  Rivulet  " 

"  whose  waters  drew 
His  little  feet  when  life  was  new." 


13 


Here  also  were  felt  his  earliest  poetic  impulses, 

"  Duly  I  sought  thy  banks,  and  tried 
My  first  rude  numbers  by  thy  side." 

We  wandered  about,  over  those  beautiful  regions,  day  after 
day;  and,  as  memories  of  the  past  thronged  upon  Mr.  Bryant's 
mind,  it  was  a  rare  pleasure  to  listen  to  such  reminiscences. 
We  sought  out  the  lonely  spot  associated  with  the  "  Two 
Graves,"  while  he  related  the  strange  tradition  connected  with 
the  place.  We  walked  also  into  the  "  Entrance  to  a  Wood,1' 

"where  the  thick  roof 
Of  green  and  stirring  branches  was  alive 
And  musical  with  birds." 

We  were  at  "the  old  homestead,"  where  Mr.  Bryant  was 
born,  and  where  he  passed  all  his  younger  days,  remaining 
into  early  manhood.  His  father  was  well  known  here  as  the 
"Beloved  Physician."  The  place  for  some  years  had  been 
out  of  the  family,  and  Mr.  Bryant  was  very  happy  in  the 
thought  that  he  had  come  into  possession  of  it  again.  He 
had  rebuilt  the  mansion,  and  made  various  improvements, 
saving  whatever  could  be  saved,  and  especially  preserving 
all  the  old  landmarks.  His  own  words  describe  precisely  the 
general  aspect  of  the  country  :  — 

"  I  stood  upon  the  upland  slope,  and  cast 
Mine  eye  upon  a  broad  and  beauteous  scene, 
Where  the  vast  plain  lay  girt  by  mountains  vast, 
And  hills  o'er  hills  lifted  their  heads  of  green, 

With  pleasant  vales  scooped  out,  and  villages  between." 

He  mentioned  that  while  studying  law  with  Judge  Howe, 
the  Judge  was  greatly  concerned  when  he  found  him  reading 
a  volume  of  Wordsworth,  fearing  it  would  injure  his  style. 
Serious  warnings  were  more  than  once  extended  against  the 
influence  of  that  poet.  The  Judge  might  have  felt  still  more 
deeply,  had  he  known  the  powerful  impression  that  writer  had 


14 


made  upon  Bryant's  mind.  "  I  shall  never  forget,"  says 
Richard  H.  Dana,  "  with  what  feeling  my  friend  Bryant  de 
scribed  to  me  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by  Wordsworth's 
Ballads."  "A  thousand  springs,"  he  said,  "seemed  to  gush 
up  at  once  in  my  heart,  —  and  the  face  of  nature,  of  a  sudden, 
to  change  into  a  strange  freshness  and  life." 

Mr.  Bryant,  in  speaking  of  the  "  Thanatopsis,"  stated  that, 
at  a  time  when  he  was  about  to  leave  home,  he  placed  the 
original  copy  of  that  poem,  together  with  .some  other  manu 
script  poems,  in  a  drawer  in  his  father's  office.  During  his 
absence,  his  father  met  with  the  papers,  and  was  so  much 
pleased  with  the  "  Thanatopsis  "  that  he  sent  it,  without  his 
son's  knowledge,  to  the  editors  of  the  "North  American  Re 
view,"  that  periodical  having  been  recently  established.  This 
was  in  1817,  and  thus  it  was  published.  At  that  time  only 
forty-nine  of  the  eighty-one  lines  existed,  and  four  verses  in 
rhyme  prefaced  them,  which  were  never  intended  for  such  a 
position.  The  first  sixteen  and  a  half  lines  and  the  last  fif 
teen  and  a  half,  as  they  now  stand,  were  afterwards  added, 
and  several  important  alterations  also  introduced. 

Mr.  Bryant's  brother  John  was  on  a  visit  to  the  homestead. 
He  was  a  man  of  marked  ability,  and  had  resided  for  many 
years  in  Illinois.  He  had  much  to  say  of  his  brother's  boy 
hood  ;  his  precociousness,  his  individuality,  and  the  manner  in 
which  all  the  young  people  of  that  period  looked  up  to  him. 
When  he  was  yet  quite  a  child,  his  father  would  offer  him  a 
dollar  to  write  verses  upon  a  given  subject.  John  repeated 
to  me  some  verses  which  he  yet  remembered,  written  in  this 
way.  "We  all  looked  up  to  my  brother,"  he  said,  "as  some 
thing  wonderful!  Oh,"  he  continued,  "we  thought  every 
thing  of  William." 

The  father  also  was  very  proud  of  his  boy.  Mr.  Bryant 
himself  says :  — 

"  he  taught  my  youth 
The  art  of  verse,  and  in  the  bud  of  life 
Offered  me  to  the  Muses." 


15 


Mrs.  Bryant  lived  eight  years  after  her  return  from  Italy, 
and  in  1866  passed  peacefully  away,  "  sustained  and  soothed 
by  an  unfaltering  trust."  It  was  a  serious  blow,  but  Mr. 
Bryant  met  it  with  that  unshaken  Christian  fortitude,  which 
alone  could  give  support.  Instead  of  becoming  crushed,  he, 
braced  himself  for  redoubled  activity.  With  extraordinary  in 
tellectual  vigor,  at  the  age  of  seventy-one,  he  commenced,  in 
earnest,  the  translation  of  the  Iliad.  He  was  at  work  upon  this 
while  I  was  at  Cummington.  It  occupied  regularly  a  portion 
of  the  day,  but  did  not  interfere  with  any  domestic  enjoyment. 
He  told  me  he  translated  from  the  Greek  on  an  average  forty 
lines  a  day,  and  at  times  double  that  amount.  I  was  every 
day  in  his  study,  and  saw  no  English  translation  among  his 
many  books.  He  had  a  German  translation  to  which  he 
might  occasionally  refer.  He  stated  that  he  had  always  been 
fond  of  Greek,  and  that,  when  he  first  acquired  the  knowl 
edge  of  that  language,  a  fellow-student,  who  has  since  risen  to 
eminence  in  the  law,  wept  because  he  could  not  keep  up  with 
him.  I  took  to  Mr.  Bryant  a  copy  of  Felton's  Lectures  on 
Greek  Literature,  which  he  had  not  seen,  and  which  inter 
ested  him.  His  translation  of  the  Iliad  was  completed  in 
1869,  after  which  he  at  once  commenced  the  Odyssey,  which 
h§  completed  in  1871,  making  six  years  in  which  he  was 
engaged  upon  the  work.  Had  he  executed  nothing  else,  it 
would  have  been  a  monument  to  his  ability  ;  an  achievement, 
at  his  period  of  life,  which  under  the  circumstances  may  be 
considered  unsurpassed. 

Thus  did  Mr.  Bryant  continue  in  intellectual  vigor  to  the 
last ;  with  every  faculty  in  full  strength  ;  and  even  his  poetic 
genius  and  artistic  skill  unimpaired.  At  length,  on  a  beauti 
ful  day,  June  12th,  —  the  very  month  in  which  he  had  most 
desired  to  go,  —  he  was  suddenly  taken  from  us.  His  last 
word  was  a  tribute  to  the  cause  of  Liberty ;  and  his  closing 
effort  a  final  demonstration  of  the  exertion  he  was  ever  ready 
to  make  in  behalf  of  others. 


16 


I  know  of  nothing  more  applicable  to  the  present  occasion 
than  Mr.  Bryant's  hitherto  unpublished  words  in  a  note  which 
I  received  from  him,  on  the  death  of  President  Quiricy,  July, 
1864.  As  I  read  the  page,  seemingly  fresh  from  his  pen,  it 
is  as  if  he  were  himself  speaking  :  — 

"  I  was  about,"  he  writes,  "  to  call  it  a  sad  event,  but 
it  is  so  only  in  a  limited  sense  ;  —  sad  to  those  who  survive, 
and  who  shall  see  his  venerable  form,  and  hear  his  wise  and 
kindly  words  no  more  ;  but  otherwise,  no  more  sad  than  the 
close  of  a  well-spent  day,  or  the  satisfactory  completion  of  any 
task  which  has  long  occupied  our  attention.  Mr.  Quincy,  in 
laying  aside  the  dull  weeds  of  mortality,  has  with  them  put  off 
old  age  with  its  infirmities,  and  (passing  to  a  nobler  stage  of 
existence)  enters  again  upon  the  activity  of  youth,  with  more 
exalted  powers  and  more  perfect  organs.  Instead  of  lament 
ing  his  departure  at  a  time  of  life  considerably  be}rond  the 
common  age  of  man,  the  generation  which  now  inhabits  the 
earth  should  give  thanks  that  he  has  lived  so  long,  and  should 
speak  of  the  blessing  of  being  allowed  for  so  many  years  to 
have  before  them  so  illustrious  an  example." 

What  words  could  be  found  more  appropriate  to  himself? 
I  will  only  add  his  own  eloquent  utterance  on  the  death  of 
his  friend  Washington  Irving  :  "  Farewell,  thou  hast  entered 
into  the  rest  prepared,  from  the  foundation  of  the  world, 
for  serene  and  gentle  spirits  like  thine.  Farewell,  happy  in 
thy  life,  happy  in  thy  death,  happier  in  the  reward  to  which 
that  death  was  the  assured  passage.  The  brightness  of  that 
enduring  fame,  which  thou  hast  won  on  earth,  is  but  a 
shadowy  symbol  of  the  glory  to  which  thou  art  admitted 
in  the  world  beyond  the  grave." 


APPENDIX. 


kt  THOU  hast  taught  us,  with  delighted  eye, 

To  gaze  upon  the  mountains,  —  to  behold, 
With  deep  affection,  the  pure  ample  sky 

And  clouds  along  its  blue  abysses  rolled, 
To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 
The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear.1' 


18 


ANCESTRY. 


STEPHEN  BRYANT,  the  founder  of  the  Bryant  family  on  this 
continent,  came  from  England,  in  the  "  Mayflower,"  about  1  G40. 
Ichabod  Bryant  moved  from  Ray n ham  to  West  Bridgewater  in  1745. 
His  son,  Philip  Bryant,  was  born  in  1732,  and  practised  medicine  in 
North  Bridgewater,  Massachusetts  ;  he  married  a  daughter  of  Dr. 
Abiel  Howard,  of  Bridgewater.  Peter  Bryant  was  born  at  North 
Bridgewajer,  1767.  He  studied  medicine,  and  succeeded  his  father  in 
his  profession.  He  became  interested  in  the  daughter  of  Ebenezer 
Snell.  Mr.  Snell  removing  with  his  family  to  Cummington,  Peter 
Bryant  soon  followed,  and  was  united  in  marriage  to  Sarah  Snell  in 
1792.  She  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  John  Alden,  the  famous  lieutenant 
of  Miles  Standish,  "  the  stalwart  captain  of  Plymouth." 

The  second  child  of  Peter  and  Sarah  Bryant  was  born  November  3, 
1794.  The  name  given  to  this  child  was  WILLIAM  CULLEN,  in  honor 
of  Dr.  Cullen,  the  great  medical  authority  of  that  time,  professor  in  the 
University  of  Edinburgh  ;  and  thus  the  name  of  the  distinguished 
Scottish  physician  has  become  associated  with  American  literature, 
and  rendered  familiar  as  a  household  word  to  the  whole  American 
people. 


19 


TT7ILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  born  at  Cummington,  3d 
»  »  November,  1794,  in  early  youth  wrote  various  poems  which 
attracted  attention  and  were  widely  circulated.  In  1808,  he  pub 
lished  a  satirical  poem  entitled  ''The  Embargo,  by  a  Youth  of 
Thirteen."  In  1810,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  he  entered  Williams 
College.  He  took  an  honorable  dismissal  in  1812,  and  commenced 
the  study  of  law  with  the  Hon.  William  Baylis,  of  West  Bridgewater. 
He  afterward  studied  for  two  years  in  the  office  of  Judge  Howe.  In 
1815,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  In  1817, 
his  "  Thanatopsis "  appeared  in  the  "  North  American  Review," 
which  was  followed  by  his  "  Lines  to  a  Water-fowl."  This  year  he 
took  up  his  residence  at  Great  Barrington,  where  he  continued  until 
1825,  when  he  removed  to  New  York,  and  became  the  editor  of  the 
"  New  York  Review."  He  delivered  his  poern  on  "  The  Ages  "  before 
the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard  University  in  1821,  and  the 
same  year  he  was  married  to  Frances  Fairchild.  In  1827,  he  be 
came  one  of  the  editors  of  the  "Evening  Post,"  which  position  he 
continued  to  fill  for  more  than  half  a  century,  holding  the  same  at  the 
time  of  his  death.  In  18G4,  his  seventieth  birthday  was  celebrated  by 
the  Century  Club,  at  which  the  most  distinguished  literary  men  of  the 
country  were  present.  In  18G6,  he  was  called  to  severe  affliction  in 
the  death  of  his  wife,  after  a  most  happy  union  of  forty-five  years.  In 
his  seventy-first  year,  he  commenced  the  translation  of  the  u  Iliad," 
and  of  the  "Odyssey  "  in  1870,  both  of  which  translations  were  com 
pleted  within  the  space  of  six  years.  On  the  29th  of  May,  1878,  he 
delivered  an  address  in  Central  Park,  New  York,  in  honor  of  the 
Italian  patriot  Mazzini.  This  was  his  last  public  act.  He  fell 
exhausted,  and  on  the  twelfth  day  of  June  a  nation  mourned  his 
departure. 

"  CHEERFUL    HE    GAVE    HIS    BEING    UP,    ANI>    WENT 


20 


INCIDENT   AT   COLLEGE. 


THE  year  that  Mr.  Bryant  entered  Williams  College,  "  Knicker 
bocker's  History  of  New  York  "  made  its  appearance  ;  and,  with  his 
keen  appreciation  of  humor,  he  became  at  once  so  much  interested  in 
it,  that  he  committed  a  portion  to  memory,  to  repeat  as  a  declamation 
before  his  class.  In  the  recital,  however,  lie  was  so  completely  overcome 
with  laughter,  that  it  became  impossible  for  him  to  proceed.  He 
received  a  rebuke  from  his  tutor,  who  would  have  done  himself  no 
discredit,  if  he  had  laughed  also.  Now  that  seventy  years  have  gone 
by,  are  we  not,  by  this  little  incident,  drawn  yet  more  closely  to  one 
who,  in  the  youthful  sympathy  of  his  nature,  felt  such  a  hearty  response 
to  the  irresistible  humor  of  Knickerbocker? 

TWENTY-THREE  years  after  this  college  experience,  Washington 
Irving,  the  warm  admirer  of  Bryant,  at  that  time  Secretary  of  the 
American  Legation  in  London,  edited  an  English  edition  of  Bryant's 
Poems,  with  a  cordial  and  flattering  Introduction. 


21 


AT     ROSLYN. 


"  Noiselessly,  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes." 

Forest  Hymn. 

"  Here  build,  and  dread  no  harsher  sound, 

To  scare  you  from  the  sheltering  tree, 
Than  winds  that  stir  the  branches  round, 

And  murmur  of  the  bee." 

Return  of  the  Birds. 

"  Brood,  kind  creatures  ;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here." 

Robert  of  Lincoln. 

AT  Roslyn,  while  we  were  looking  at  the  trees  near  the  house,  I 
observed  a  large  branch  upon  one  of  them  sawn  nearly  off,  so  that 
its  weight  would  have  quickly  brought  it  to  the  ground.  This  result 
was  prevented  by  ropes  interlacing  the  branches,  carefully  securing  the 
bouo-h  to  the  main  trunk  and  to  the  heavier  branches  above. 

£5 

Mr.  Bryant,  seeing  that  curiosity  was  awakened,  with  a  smile  gave 
the  explanation. 

"  My  gardener,"  he  said,  "came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  absence 
of  this  bough  would  be  an  improvement  to  the  tree.  The  work  of 
destruction  was  at  once  commenced,  when  his  purpose  attracted  my 
notice.  On  that  branch,"  said  Mr.  Bryant,  pointing  beneath  the 
leaves,  "  )ou  will  see  a  nest,  where  the  parent  birds  had  been  watching 
their  young.  I  instantly  ordered  the  gardener  to  bring  ropes  and  have 
the  branch  carefully  secured  in  its  place.  It  was  an  awkward  thing  to 
accomplish  ;  but  he  has  at  least  succeeded  sufficiently  well  to  leave  the 
birds  undisturbed,  —  which  is  a  great  satisfaction,  —  and  this  accounts 
for  what  you  see." 

If  the  "  Water-fowl "  was  unconsciously  immortalized,  and  the 
"  Bob-o'-link  "  made  the  subject  of  attractive  thought,  these  birds,  by 
the  same  mind,  had  secured  to  them  their  comfortable  home,  the  very 
existence  of  which  was  threatened  ;  while  the  act  itself  was  so  com 
plete  a  poem  that  the  author  did  not  need  to  put  it  into  verse. 


22 


A   SUNDAY    AT    CUMMINGTON. 


THERE  was  one  incident  connected  with  our  visit  to  Cumming- 
ton,  so  characteristic  of  Mr.  Bryant,  I  am  tempted  to  relate  it. 

On  Friday,  he  said  to  me,  as  we  were  walking  among  the  fields  :  "  It 
is  my  wish  that  on  Sunday  we  should  have  religious  services  in  the 
school-house.  There  is  no  church-edifice  near  at  hand,  and  the  school- 
house  will  be  just  the  place.  I  will  spread  the  intelligence  among  the 
people,  and  they  will  gladly  come." 

I  stated  that  I  had  no  written  discourse  with  me  ;  and  I  was  not 
sure  that  I  should  be  able  to  meet  the  wants  of  the  people  thus  called 
together.  Mr.  Bryant  replied,  no  written  discourse  was  needed,  that 
the  thought  which  would  naturally  present  itself  could  be  spoken,  and 
that  nothing  could  be  better  than  to  have  the  simple  truths  of  Chris 
tianity  brought  directly  home  to  the  heart. 

In  replying  that  I  would  cheerfully  do  whatever  he  desired,  I  may 
as  well  confess  that  I  added,  I  did  not  so  much  mind  speaking  before 
the  people  as  before  him.  "  Oh  !  "  said  he,  with  a  sweet  smile  and  a 
half  reproving  look,  "  I  should  think  you  had  known  me  long  enough  not 
to  feel  thus.  No  one  will  welcome  more  heartily  whatever  may  be 
said."  '"Make  any  arrangement  you  please,"  I  said,  "and  I  shall  re 
joice  to  be  with  you." 

The  next  morning,  Mr.  Bryant  and  his  brother  John  left  home  for 
the  school-house,  —  a  picturesque  little  building,  and  quite  within 
sight.  Here  they  were  to  make  any  needed  preparation,  and  put 
things  in  order  for  the  morrow. 

^ 

It  was  not  long  before  they  returned  with  a  look  of  disappointment. 
Something  baffled  them.  What  it  was  they  were  rather  reluctant  to 
communicate.  However,  they  soon  made  known  the  fact  that  the  school- 
liouse  would  not  answer.  The  desks  were  all  fixtures,  and  were 


23 


intended  for  young  children.  Any  needed  change  was  wholly  impracti 
cable.  The  impossibility  of  using  that  building,  for  the  purpose  pro 
posed,  was  decisive.  Our  plans  seemed  to  melt  before  us. 

So  matters  rested.  Presently,  Mr.  Bryant  and  his  brother  dis 
appeared,  and  were  no  more  seen  through  the  whole  morning.  The 
poet  might  be  deeply  engaged  over  his  translation  of  Homer.  The 
battles  of  the  Greeks  were,  perhaps,  absorbing  his  mind.  No : 
the  two  brothers  were  away  from  home,  —  no  one  knew  where.  At 
length,  they  returned  with  an  evident  look  of  triumph.  **  It  is  all  right !  " 
"  We  have  arranged  matters  to  our  satisfaction  ! "  Such  were  their 
exclamations.  The  "  Homestead,"  where  we  were,  was  midway  upon 
the  hill.  Some  ways  up,  near  to  the  summit  of  this  elevation,  Mr. 
Bryant  was  erecting  a  house  for  his  son-in-law,  Parke  Godwin,  and 
his  family.  The  building  was  covered  in,  but  not  completed.  Car 
penters  and  mechanics  were  busily  at  work.  The  brothers  had  pro 
ceeded  thither  to  investigate.  Mr.  Bryant  was  not  ready  to  succumb. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  have  a  service ;  and  a  service  there 
should  be ! 

Why  not  have  it  in  this  new  building?  The  scene  looked  at  present 
like  a  chaos,  with  a  clutter  of  shavings  and  barrels  and  boards.  This 
did  not  matter.  The  workmen  were  ordered  to  clear  the  place.  All 
hands  were  soon  at  work,  and  the  brothers  enjoyed  it  thoroughly.  It 
seemed  like  old  times.  They  were  boys  again.  They  worked  with  a 
will.  The  piles  of  chips  and  shavings  speedily  vanished  ;  all  rubbish 
was  soon  removed  from  the  whole  lower  floor.  Then  the  question  was 
for  seats.  Boxes  and  barrels  were  arranged,  and  boards  laid  upon  them 
in  orderly  rows  :  all  this  was  extemporized  in  a  masterly  manner. 
Every  difficulty  was  overcome,  and  in  due  time  a  most  primitive  place 
of  worship  was  completed,  reminding  one  of  the  Covenanters  and  the 
Puritans ;  though  this  was  a  cathedral  compared  to  places  where  they 
often  met.  The  scene  around  was  certainly  grand,  —  the  wide  sweep 
of  valleys  and  the  vast  amphitheatre  of  wooded  hills. 

We  now  waited  for  the  morrow,  which  soon  came,  —  a  calm  Sep 
tember  morning.  The  population  was  widely  scattered.  There  was 
no  village  in  the  immediate  neighborhood.  Simple  farm-houses  ap 
peared  here  and  there,  humble  homes  under  the  shadow  of  spreading 
trees.  Word  had  been  spread  from  dwelling  to  dwelling,  and  farmers 
with  their  families  were  seen  upon  the  way.  Aged  people  were  there 
with  whom  the  journey  of  life  was  nearly  ended,  and  little  children  in 
their  Sunday  clothes.  Invalids,  feeble  and  worn,  who  were  seldom 


24 


out,  and  mothers  with  their  infants  in  their  arms.  Then  there  were 
strong  sunburnt  laborers  and  young  men  in  the  vigor  of  life.  The  new 
house  was  soon  thronged.  All  the  seats  were  occupied.  Some  of  the 
young  people  were  seated  upon  the  stairs,  and  some  stood  by  the  open 
windows.  Familiar  hymns  were  sung  to  tunes  in  which  all  could 
unite.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  most  touching  and  beautiful  sight,  —  thoroughly 
earnest  and  good.  I  doubt  if  the  sun  shone  that  day  upon  a  truer  or 
happier  body  of  worshippers,  and  among  them  all,  perhaps,  no  one 
enjoyed  it  more  truly  than  Mr.  Bryant. 

When  the  services  were  ended,  there  were  friendly  greetings.  Mr. 
Bryant  appeared  like  a  father  in  the  midst  of  his  family.  All  wished 
and  received  a  pleasant  word  or  look,  and  evidently  valued  it  as  a  pa 
triarchal  benediction.  Thus  closed  an  occasion  not  soon  by  any  present 
to  be  forgotten. 


JOHN  HOWARD  BRYANT,  a  younger  brother  of  William,  was  born 
at  Cummington,  22d  July,  1807.  In  youth,  while  at  the  Rensselaer 
school  at  Troy,  he  excelled  in  Mathematics  and  the  Natural  Sciences. 
In  1831,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  he  emigrated  to  the  West,  establish 
ing  himself  at  Princeton,  Illinois.  At  one  time  he  was  representative  in 
the  State  Legislature.  Communications  from  his  pen  have  appeared 
at  various  times  in  leading  periodicals.  In  1855,  a  volume  of  his  poems, 
from  the  press  of  his  brother  William,  was  published  by  the  Appletons, 
which  was  favorably  received  by  the  public. 

0 

WHILE  at  Cummington,  being  one  morning  alone  with  Mr.  Bryant 
in  his  library,  he  said,  "  Some  of  my  brother's  poems  have  great 
merit ; "  and  taking  up  a  copy  of  the  volume  from  the  table,  in  which 
John  had  written,  "  For  the  Old  Homestead,"  Mr.  Bryant  said,  "  Let 
me  read  to  you."  He  commenced  one  of  the  poems,  but  before  pro 
ceeding  far  his  voice  became  tremulous  ;  more  and  more  he  was  over 
come  by  emotion  ;  until  no  longer  able  to  read,  he  handed  me  the 
book,  saying,  "  Excuse  me,  —  I  cannot  go  on,  —  please  read  it  yourself." 

Under  a  calm  and  unirnpassioned  manner,  there  was  in  Mr.  Bryant's 
nature  hidden  depths  of  feeling ;  and  this  tribute  to  his  brother  has 
often  come  to  my  recollection,  as  an  instance  of  his  own  sensibility, 
and  a  proof  of  the  strong  bond  which  united  the  brothers. 


25 


BEFORE  my  leaving  Cummington,  Mr.  Bryant  wrote  his  name,  as  a 
token  of  remembrance,  in  a  volume  of  his  Poems,  adding  the  closing 
verse  of  his  well-known  lines  to  the  water-fowl : 

"  He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 
Will  lead  my  steps  aright." 

These  words,  which  had  then  deep  significance,  are  yet  more  im 
pressive  now. 


26 


THE   COMMUNION-SERVICE  AT  NAPLES. 


THE  seven  persons  who  were  gathered  together  at  Naples,  on  that 
beautiful  morning  in  the  spring  of  1858,  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bryant, 
their  daughter  Julia  and  her  friend  Estelle  Ives,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Water- 
ston  and  their  daughter  Helen.  The  rite  of  baptism  was  also  adminis 
tered  to  Julia  Bryant  and  Estelle  Ives  (now  Mrs.  Mackie,  of  Great 
Barrington).  The  three  young  people  united  with  Mr.  Bryant  in 
partaking  of  the  Holy  Communion  for  the  first  time. 

Helen  Ruthven  Waterston,  to  whom  Mr.  Bryant  paid  so  exquisite 
a  tribute  in  one  of  his  "  Letters  from  Spain,"  was  in  the  bloom  of  her 
youth  and  beauty.  An  illness  soon  followed  ;  and,  on  the  25th  of 
July,  —  three  months  from  the  day  and  hour  of  that  hallowed  service, 
—  her  spirit  passed  away,  on  a  peaceful  Sunday  morning.  As  will 
be  readily  understood,  such  tender  associations  united  us  all  together  by 
very  sacred  ties. 


27 


WILLIAM   C.   BRYANT   AND    RICHARD    H.    DANA. 


WHEN  the  "  Thanatopsis,"  and  lines  "  To  a  Water-fowl,"  were  sent 
to  the  editors  of  the  "  North  American  Review,"  they  were  sent  by 
Dr.  Bryant,  the  father,  anonymously.  It  was  not  even  stated  that 
they  were  by  the  same  person.  The  editing  of  the  periodical  was 
under  the  special  charge  of  Richard  H.  Dana  and  Professor  Charming. 
These  poems  were  placed  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Dana.  After  read 
ing  them,  he  said,  "  I  do  not  think  these  poems  were  written  by  an 
American."  "Why  so?"  was  the  response.  "I  do  not  know  of  any 
American,"  replied  Mr.  Dana,  "  who  could  have  written  them." 

This  statement  was  made  to  me  by  Mr.  Dana  himself,  who  had  the 
fullest  appreciation  of  the  remarkable  character  of  the  productions.  He 
was  eager  to  welcome  this  new  compeer  into  the  world  of  letters. 
His  curiosity  was  aroused  ;  and,  when  informed  that  the  name  of  the 
writer  was  Bryant,  who  was  then  a  member  of  the  Massachusetts 
Legislature,  Mr.  Dana  (residing  at  that  time  in  Cambridge)  at  once 
came  into  the  city,  and  repaired  to  the  State  House,  where  the 
Representative,  Dr.  Peter  Bryant,  from  Cummington,  was  pointed 
out.  Mr.  Dana  told  me  he  looked  upon  the  gentleman  designated 
with  deep  interest.  Pie  saw  a  man  of  striking  presence,  but  the  stamp 
of  genius  was  wanting;  and,  with  unfeigned  disappointment,  he  said, 
"  That  is  a  good  head,  but  I  do  not  see  the  '  Thanatopsis  '  there  ! " 

This  exclamation,  so  remarkable  for  penetration  and  originality,  was 
characteristic  of  Mr.  Dana's  sagacious  judgment.  He  could  recognize 
genius,  he  was  ready  and  anxious  to  extend  a  cordial  salutation  ;  but 
he  was  convinced  that,  in  the  decision  here  made,  he  had  judged  rightly. 

At  no  distant  day,  the  two  kindred  minds  came  together,  differing, 
yet  harmonious ;  when  immediately  a  friendship  was  formed,  which, 
amid  the  vicissitudes  of  half  a  century,  proved  indissoluble. 

Mr.  Dana  is  yet  with  us,  in  the  ripeness  of  years,  all  his  faculties 
strong  and  vigorous.  Long  may  Providence  spare  him,  to  be  unto 
many  a  counsellor  and  a  friend. 


**  On  my  heart 

Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 
And  shall  not  soon  depart." 


29 


FOUR  verses  were  printed  in  the  "  North  American  Review,"  as  an 
introduction  to  the  "  Thanatopsis."  « It  was  never  intended  by  Mr. 
Bryant  that  they  should  thus  have  been  published.  They  were  sent, 
through  mistake,  by  his  father,  with  the  manuscript  of  "  Thanatopsis." 
They  were  originally  written  as  a  separate  production ;  as  such,  they 
are  worth  preserving.  They  have  never  been  included  by  Mr.  Bryant 
in  any  collected  edition  of  his  Poems ;  but  they  are  interesting  from 
their  history,  and  as  the  expression  of  his  views  in  the  earlier  period 
of  life:  — 

Not  that  from  life,  and  all  its  woes, 

The  hand  of  death  shall  set  me  free ; 
Not  that  this  head  shall  then  repose 

In  the  low  vale  most  peacefully. 

Ah  !  when  I  touch  Time's  farthest  brink, 

A  kinder  solace  must  attend: 
It  chills  my  very  soul  to  think 

On  the  dread  hour  when  life  must  end. 

In  vain  the  nattering  verse  may  breathe 
Of  ease  from  pain  and  rest  from  strife ; 

There  is  a  sacred  dread  of  death 
Inwoven  with  the  strings  of  life. 

This  bitter  cup  at  first  was  given, 

When  angry  Justice  frowned  severe; 
And  'tis  the  eternal  doom  of  Heaven 

That  man  must  view  the  grave  with  fear. 


30 


THROUGH  what  Mr.  Bryant  has  written  at  successive  periods  of  life, 
we  can  see  that  his  mind  was  more  and  more  illumined  by  an  exalted 
Christian  faith.  In  the  following  verses,  Christ,  risen  and  glorified, 
opens  to  the  view  visions  of  heaven  :  — 

JESUS   OF   NAZARETH. 

"  I  shall  not  die,  but  live." 

ALL  praise  to  Him  of  Nazareth, 

The  Holy  One  who  came, 
For  love  of  man,  to  die  a  death 

Of  agony  and  shame. 

Dark  was  the  grave  ;  but  since  He  lay 

Within  its  dreary  cell, 
The  beams  of  Heaven's  eternal  day 

Upon  its  threshold  dwell. 

He  grasped  the  iron  veil ;  He  drew 

Its  gloomy  folds  aside, 
And  opened  to  his  followers'  view 

The  glorious  world  they  hide. 


WHAT  unspeakable  consolation  breathes  through  every  word  of  the 
following  verses !  How  many  anxious  and  sorrowing  hearts  have 
here  found  comfort  and  peace ! 

BLESSED   ARE    THEY   THAT    MOURN. 

DEEM  not  that  they  are  blessed  alone 

Whose  days  a  peaceful  tenor  keep ; 
The  God,  who  loves  our  race,  has  shown 

A  blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 

The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 

The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears; 
And  weary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 

Are  promises  of  happier  years. 


31 

There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night : 

And  Grief  may  bide  an  evening  guest ; 
But  Joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 

And  thou,who,  o'er  thy  friend's  low  bier, 
Dost  shed  the  bitter  drops  like  rain, 

Hope  that  a  brighter,  happier  sphere 
Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  again. 

Nor  let  the  good  man's  trust  depart, 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny ; 

Though,  with  a  pierced  and  bleeding  heart, 
And  spurned  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 

For  God  hath  marked  each  sorrowing  day, 
And  numbered  every  secret  tear, 

And  heaven's  long  age  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  all  his  children  suffer  here. 


AGAIN,  in  his  lines  on  "  Waiting  by  the  Gate,"  he  says :  — 

Some  approach  the  threshold  whose  looks  are  blank  with  fear, 
And  some  whose  temples  brighten  with  joy  in  drawing  near, 
As  if  they  saw  dear  faces,  and  caught  the  gracious  eye 
Of  Him,  the  Sinless  Teacher,  who  came  for  us  to  die. 

I  mark  the  joy,  the  terror ;  yet  these  within  my  heart, 
Can  neither  wake  the  dread  nor  the  longing  to  depart ; 
And,  in  the  sunshine  streaming  on  quiet  wood  and  lea, 
I  stand  and  calmly  wait,  till  the  hinges  turn  for  me. 


32 


MR.  BRYANT,  in  a  private  note,  —  quoted  in  the  remarks, — 
dated  Roslyn,  July  7th,  1864.  —  while  speaking  of  the  death 
of  President  Quincy,  who  had  just  departed  this  life,  in  his  ninety-third 
year,  says,  "  Mr.  Quincy  has  put  of  old  age  with  all  its  infirmities,  and 
(passing  to  a  nobler  stage  of  existence)  enters  again  upon  the  activity  of 
youth,  with  more  exalted  powers  and  more  perfect  organs." 

This  inspiring  thought  was  with  Mr.  Bryant  more  than  a  poetic 
imagination,  it  was  a  living  faith,  a  deep  and  abiding  conviction.  He 
has  given  exquisite  expression  to  the  same  sublime  idea  in  his  verses 
entitled  "  The  Return  of  Youth." 

This  poem,  we  think,  may  be  counted  among  the  most  perfect  pro 
ductions  of  Mr.  Bryant's  genius.  The  grand  idea  of  immortality,  here 
presented,  not  only  robs  the  grave  of  its  terror,  but  lifts  the  thought 
triumphantly  to  realms  of  celestial  splendor  ;  not  vague  and  unreal,  but 
natural  and  homelike;  kindling  in  the  mind  an  almost  infinite  longing. 
He  addresses  a  friend  \\ho  is  sorrowing  over  the  loss  of  his  golden 
prime,  the  youthful  years  which  have  taken  flight  only  too  soon,  while 
the  shadows  of  time  are  swiftly  falling.  "  Look  not,"  exclaims  the 
Poet,  "  with  despair  to  the  Past,  but,  with  glowing  anticipation,  gaze 
into  the  Future  !  " 

THE   RETURN   OF  YOUTH. 

On,  grieve  thou  not,  nor  think  thy  youth  is  gone, 

Nor  deem  that  glorious  season  e'er  could  die  : 
Thy  pleasant  youth,  a  little  while  withdrawn, 

Waits  on  the  horizon  of  a  brighter  sky; 
Waits,  like  the  Morn,  that  folds  her  wings  and  hides 

Till  the  slow  stars  bring  back  her  dawning  hour; 
Waits,  like  the  vanished  Spring,  that  slumbering  bides 

Her  own  sweet  time  to  waken  bud  and  flower. 

There  shall  he  welcome  thee,  when  thou  shalt  stand 

On  his  bright  morning  hills,  with  smiles  more  sweet 
Than  when  at  first  he  took  thee  by  the  hand, 

Through  the  fair  earth  to  lead  thy  tender  feet. 
He  shall  bring  back,  but  brighter,  broader  still, 

Life's  early  glory  to  thine  eyes  again, 
Shall  clothe  thy  spirit  with  new  strength,  and  fill 

Thy  leaping  heart  with  warmer  love  than  then. 


33 


Hast  thou  not  glimpses,  in  the  twilight  here, 

Of  mountains  where  immortal  morn  prevails? 
Comes  there  not,  through  the  silence,  to  thine  ear 

A  gentle  rustling  of  the  morning  gales  ; 
A  murmur,  wafted  from  that  glorious  shore, 

Of  streams  that  water  banks  for  ever  fair, 
And  voices  of  the  loved  ones  gone  before, 

More  musical  in  that  celestial  air? 


NATURALLY  was  it  remembered,  when  Mr.  Bryant's  spirit  passed 
quietly  away  on  a  beautiful  day  in  June,  that  it  was  in  accordance  with 
his  expressed  wish  ;  and  many  fondly  repeated  what  he  had  written  years 
ago,  aud  felt  that  Providence  had  kindly  heard  and  answered  his 
prayer. 

I  thought  that  when  I  came  to  lie 

At  rest  within  the  ground, 
'Twere  pleasant,  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  send  up  a  cheerful  tune 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich,  green  mountain-turf  should  break. 


Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze, 

Earth  green  beneath  the  feet, 
And  be  the  damp  mould  gently  pressed 
Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 

There  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by  : 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  close  beside  my  cell. 


And  when  we  think  of  the  last  service  at  Roslyn,  and  of  that  peace 
ful  resting-place  by  the  side  of  his  beloved  wife,  amid  scenes  so  long 
familiar,  we  may  well  continue  to  repeat  his  words, — 

5 


34 


"  And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 

Come  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  song  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon, 

With  fairy  laughter  blent? 
And  what  if  in  the  evening  light 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

Arid  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 

The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go  ; 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb.' 


THUS  was  it  that  his  wish,  like  a  presentiment,  was  to  be  fulfilled  ; 
and  when  that  event,  so  prefigured,  arrived,  literally  true  to  his  own 
words,  he  went 

"  Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams." 

And  even  more  fully  does  he    depict  his  entrance  upon  the   Great 
Future,  when  in  his  "  Journey  of  Life,"  he  says,  — 

"  —  I,  with  faltering  footsteps,  journey  on, 
AVatching  the  stars  that  roll  the  hours  away, 

Till  the  faint  light,  that  guides  me  now,  is  gone, 
And,  like  another  life,  the  glorious  day 
Shall  open  o'er  me,  from  the  empyreal  height, 
WITH  WARMTH,  and  CERTAINTY,  and  BOUNDLESS  LIGHT." 


"  Even  then  he  trod 
The  threshold  of  the  world  unknown ; 

Already,  from  the  seat  of  God, 
A  ray  upon  his  garments  shone." 


"  WHY  weep  ye  then  for  him,  who,  having  won 
The  bound  of  man's  appointed  years,  at  last, 
Life's  blessings  all  enjoyed,  life's  labors  done, 

Serenely  to  his  final  rest  has  passed; 
While  the  soft  memory  of  his  virtues,  yet, 
Lingers  like  twilight  hues,  when  the  bright  sun  is  set?  " 


POETICAL     TRIBUTES 


TO 


FRANCES    F.    BRYANT, 

BY 

WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT. 

SSErttten  at  Fartous  Seasons, 

THROUGH    MANY    YEARS    OF    DEVOTED    AFFECTION. 


THESE  poems,  addressed  to  Mrs.  Bryant,  are  reprinted  from  Mr. 
Bryant's  collected  works,  partly  as  a  tribute  to  her  memory,  and  in  part 
that  they  may  stand  together  and  be  so  read.  As  usually  printed,  the 
reader  might  not  necessarily  associate  them  with  Mrs.  Bryant;  for  instance, 
in  the  lines  headed  "  The  Twenty-seventh  of  March,1'  no  mention  is  made 
that  this  was  the  birthday  of  Mrs.  Bryant.  These  lines,  for  several  years, 
like  other  tributes  to  her,  were  retained  in  manuscript,  and  held  as  too 
private  and  sacred  for  general  publication.  Mrs.  Bryant's  unaffected 
modesty  shrunk  from  publicity,  which  was  doubtless  the  reason  why  the 
name  was  originally  withheld ;  but  now  that  she  has  entered  into  that  state 
of  being  where  they  are  in  heavenly  companionship,  it  is  pleasant  to  bring 
these  unsurpassed  expressions  together,  as  the  utterance  of  a  love  that 
knew  no  change  save  that  it  grew  deeper  and  stronger  as  the  years 
wore  away. 


39 


OH,    FAIREST     OF    THE    RURAL    MAIDS. 

This  poem,  addressed  by  Mr.  Bryant  to  Frances  Fairchild,  was  written  amid 
the  beautiful  scenery  of  Great  Barrington  early  in  that  acquaintance  which  led 
to  their  union  in  1821,  —  the  same  year  in  which  his  poem  of  "  The  Ages"  was 
given  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  at  Cambridge. 

OH,  fairest  of  the  rural  maids  ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades; 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thine  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child, 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild  ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart,  and  on  thy  face. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks  ; 
Thy  step  is  in  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  impressed, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast  ; 
The  holy  peace,  that  fills  the  air 
O£  those  calm  solitudes,  is  there. 


40 


THE    TWENTY-SEVENTH    OF    MARCH. 

Mrs.  Bryant's  birthday.      Written  March,  1855 

OH,  gentle  one,  thy  birthday  sun  should  rise 
Amid  a  chorus  of  the  merriest  birds 
That  ever  sang  the  stars  out  of  the  sky 
In  a  June  morning.     Rivulets  should  send 
A  voice  of  gladness  from  their  winding  paths, 
Deep  in  o'erarching  grass,  where  playful  winds, 
Stirring  the  loaded  stems,  should  shower  the  dew 
Upon  the  glassy  water.     Newly  blown 
Roses,  by  thousands,  to  the  garden  walks 
Should  tempt  the  loitering  moth  and  diligent  bee. 
The  longest,  brightest  day  in  all  the  year 
Should  be  the  day  on  which  thy  cheerful  eyes 
First  opened  on  the  earth,  to  make  thy  haunts 
Fairer  and  gladder  for  thy  kindly  looks. 

Thus  might  a  poet  say  ;  but  I  must  bring 

A  birthday  offering  of  an  humbler  strain, 

And  yet  it  may  not  please  thee  less.     I  hold 

That  'twas  the  fitting  season  for  thy  birth 

When  March,  just  ready  to  depart,  begins 

To  soften  into  April.     Then  we  have 

The  delicatest  and  most  welcome  flowers, 

And  yet  they  take  least  heed  of  bitter  wind 

And  lowering  sky.     The  periwinkle  then, 

In  an  hour's  sunshine,  lifts  her  azure  blooms 

Beside  the  cottage-door  ;  within  the  woods 

Tufts  of  ground-laurel,  creeping  underneath 

The  leaves  of  the  last  summer,  send  their  sweets 

Up  to  the  chilly  air,  and,  by  the  oak, 

The  squirrel-cups,  a  graceful  company, 

Hide  in  their  bells  a  soft  aerial  blue  — 

Sweet  flowers,  that  nestle  in  the  humblest  nooks, 

And  yet  within  whose  smallest  bud  is  wrapt 

A  world  of  promise!     Still  the  north  wind  breathes 

His  frost,  and  still  the  sky  sheds  snow  and  sleet  ; 

Yet  ever,  when  the  sun  looks  forth  again, 

The  flowers  smile  up  to  him  from  their  low  seats. 


41 


Well  hast  thou  borne  the  bleak  March  day  of  life. 

Its  storms  and  its  keen  winds  to  thee  have  been 

Most  kindly  tempered,  and  through  all  its  gloom 

There  has  been  warmth  and  sunshine  in  thy  heart ; 

The  griefs  of  life  to  thee  have  been  like  snows, 

That  light  upon  the  fields  in  early  spring, 

Making  them  greener.     In  its  milder  hours, 

The  smile  of  this  pale  season,  thou  hast  seen 

The  glorious  bloom  of  June,  and  in  the  note 

Of  early  bird,  that  comes  a  messenger 

From  climes  of  endless  verdure,  thou  hast  heard 

The  choir  that  fills  the  summer  woods  with  song. 

Now  be  the  hours  that  yet  remain  to  thee 

Stormy  or  sunny,  sympathy  and  love, 

That  inextinguishably  dwell  within 

Thy  heart,  shall  give  a  beauty  and  a  light 

To  the  most  desolate  moments,  like  the  glow 

Of  a  bright  fireside  in  the  wildest  day; 

And  kindly  words  and  offices  of  good 

Shall  wait  upon  thy  steps,  as  thou  goest  on, 

Where  God  shall  lead  thee,  till  thou  reach  the  gates 

Of  a  more  genial  season,  and  thy  path 

Be  lost  to  human  eye  among  the  bowers 

And  living  fountains  of  a  brighter  land. 


THE   FUTURE   LIFE. 

Written  in  1837. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 

The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead  ; 
When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps 

And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not ; 

Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 
In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought. 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there? 

That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs  to  me  were  given 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy  prayer, 

And  wilt  thou  never  utter  it  in  heaven? 
6 


42 


In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life-breathing  wind, 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here? 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  stormy  past, 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last, 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no  more? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger  light, 

Await  thee  there,  for  thou  .hast  bowed  thy  will 

In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I  dwell 

Shrink  and  consume  my  heart,  as  heat  the  scroll ; 

And  wrath  has  left  its  scar  —  that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  soul. 

Yet,  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name, 

The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle  eye, 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate,  yet  the  same? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  calmer  home, 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this  — 

The  wisdom  which  is  love  —  till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss? 


THE    CLOUD   ON   THE   WAY. 

SEE  before  us,  in  our  journey,  broods  a  mist  upon  the  ground  ; 
Thither  leads  the  path  we  walk  in,  blending  with  that  gloomy  bound. 
Never  eye  hath  pierced  its  shadows  to  the  mystery  they  screen  ; 
Those  who  once  have  passed  within  it  never  more  on  earth  are  seen. 
Now  it  seems  to  stoop  beside  us,  now  at  seeming  distance  lowers, 
Leaving  banks  that  tempt  us   onward  bright  with   summer-green  and 
flowers.  '* 


Yet  it  blots  the  way  for  ever  ;  there  our  journey  ends  at  last  ; 

Into  that  dark  cloud  we  enter,  and  are  gathered  to  the  past. 

Thou  who,  in  this  flinty  pathway,  leading  through  a  stranger-land, 

Passest  down  the  rocky  valley,  walking  with  me  hand  in  hand, 

Which  of  us  shall  be  the  soonest  folded  to  that  dim  Unknown? 

Which  shall  leave  the  other  walking  in  this  flinty  path  alone? 

Even  now  I  see  thee  shudder,  and  thy  cheek  is  white  with  fear, 

And  thou  clingest  to  my  side  —  as  comes  that  darkness  sweeping  near. 

"  Here,"  thou  say'st,  "  the  path  is  rugged,  sown  with  thorns  that  wound 

the  feet  ; 

But  the  sheltered  glens  are  lovely,  and  the  rivulet's  song  is  sweet ; 
Roses  breathe  from  tangled  thickets  ;  lilies  bend  from  ledges  brown  ; 
Pleasantly  between  the  pelting  showers  the  sunshine  gushes  down  ; 
Dear  are  those  who  walk  beside  us,  they  whose  looks  and  voices  make 
All  this  rugged  region  cheerful,  till  I  love  it  for  their  sake. 
Far  be  yet  the  hour  that  takes  me  where  that  chilly  shadow  lies, 
From  the  things  I  know  and  love,  and  from  the  sight  of  loving  eyes." 
So  thou  murniurest,  fearful  one  :  but  see,  we  tread  a  rougher  way  ; 
Fainter  glow  the  gleams  of  sunshine,  that  upon  the  dark  rocks  play; 
Rude  winds  strew  the  faded  flowers  upon  the  crags  o'er  which  we  pass  : 
Banks  of  verdure,  when  we  reach  them,  hiss  with  tufts  of  withered  grass. 
One  by  one  we  miss  the  voices  which  we  loved  so  well  to  hear ; 
One  by  one  the  kindly  faces  in  that  shadow  disappear. 
Yet  upon  the  mist  before  us  fix  thine  eyes  with  closer  view; 
See,  beneath  its  sullen  skirts,  the  rosy  morning  glimmers  through. 
One  whose  feet  the  thorns  have  wounded,  passed  that  barrier  and  came 

back, 

With  a  glory  on  His  footsteps  lighting  yet  the  dreary  track. 
Boldly  enter  where  He  entered  ;  all  that  seems  but  darkness  here, 
When  thou  hast  passed  beyond  it,  haply  shall  be  crystal-clear. 
Viewed  from  that  serener  realm,  the  walks  of  human  life  may  lie, 
Like  the  page  of  some  familiar  volume,  open  to  thine  eye; 
Haply,   from  the  overhanging  shadow,  thou  may'st  stretch  an   unseen 

hand, 

To  support  the  wavering  steps  that  print  with  blood  the  rugged  land. 
Haply,  leaning  o'er  the  pilgrim,  all  unweeting  thou  art  near, 
Thou  may'st  whisper  words  of  warning  or  of  comfort  to  his  ear, 
Till,  beyond  the  border  where  that  brooding  mystery  bars  the  sight, 
Those  whom  thou  hast  fondly  cherished  stand  with  thee  in  peace  and 

light. 


44 


THE   LIFE   THAT  IS. 

Written  at  Castellamare,  after  Mrs.  Bryant's  recovery  from  illness  in  Naples, 
May,  1858. 

THOU,  who  so  long  hast  pressed  the  couch  of  pain, 
Oh,  welcome,  welcome  back  to  life's  free  breath ;  — 

To  life's  free  breath  and  day's  sweet  light  again, 
From  the  chill  shadows  of  the  gate  of  death  ! 

For  thou  hadst  reached  the  twilight  bound  between 
The  world  of  spirits  and  this  grosser  sphere ; 

Dimly  by  thee  the  things  of  earth  were  seen, 
And  faintly  fell  earth's  voices  on  thine  ear. 

And  now,  how  gladly  we  behold,  at  last, 
The  wonted  smile  returning  to  thy  brow ; 

The  very  wind's  low  whisper  breathing  past, 
In  the  light  leaves,  is  music  to  thee  now. 

Thou  wert  not  weary  of  thy  lot ;  the  earth 
Was  ever  good  and  pleasant  in  thy  sight ; 

Still  clung  thy  loves  about  the  household  hearth ; 
And  sweet  was  every  day's  returning  light. 

Then  welcome  back  to  all  thou  would'st  not  leave, 
To  this  grand  march  of  seasons,  days,  and  hours; 

The  glory  of  the  morn,  the  glow  of  eve, 

The  beauty  of  the  streams,  and  stars,  and  flowers; 

To  eyes  on  which  thine  own  delight  to  rest; 

To  voices  which  it  is  thy  joy  to  hear ; 
To  the  kind  toils  that  ever  pleased  thee  best, 

The  willing  tasks  of  love,  that  made  life  dear. 

Welcome  to  grasp  of  friendly  hands;  to  prayers 
Offered  where  crowds  in  reverent  worship  come  ; 

Or  softly  breathed  amid  the  tender  cares 
And  loving  inmates  of  thy  quiet  home. 

Thou  bring'st  no  tidings  of  the  better  land, 

Even  from  its  verge ;  the  mys*  cries  opened  there 

Are  what  the  faithful  heart  may  understand 
In  its  still  depths,  yet  words  may  not  declare. 


45 


And  well  I  deem,  that,  from  the  brighter  side 
Of  life's  dim  border,  some  o'erflowing  rays, 

Streamed  from  the  inner  glory,  shall  abide 
Upon  thy  spirit  through  the  coming  days. 

Twice  wert  thou  given  me  ;  once  in  thy  fair  prime, 
Fresh  from  the  fields  of  youth,  when  first  we  met, 

And  all  the  blossoms  of  that  hopeful  time 

Clustered  and  glowed  where'er  thy  steps  were  set. 

And  now,  in  thy  ripe  autumn,  once  again 

Given  back  to  fervent  prayers  and  yearnings  strong, 

From  the  drear  realm  of  sickness  and  of  pain, 

When  we  had  watched,  and  feared,  and  trembled  long. 

Now  may  we  keep  thee  from  the  balmy  air 
And  radiant  walks  of  heaven  a  little  space, 

Where  He,  who  went  before  thee  to  prepare 
For  His  meek  followers,  shall  assign  thy  place. 


"  Death  should  come 
Gently,  to  one  of  gentle  mould  like  thee, 

As  light  winds  wandering  through  groves  of  bloom 
Detach  the  delicate  blossoms  from  the  tree. 

Close  thy  sweet  eyes,  calmly,  and  without  pain; 

And  we  will  trust  in  God  to  see  thee  yet  again." 


MR.  BRYANT'S  LAST  ADDRESS, 

IN    THE 

CENTRAL    PARK,   NEW   YORK, 
29TH  OF  MAY,   1878. 


"Man  foretells  afar 

The  courses  of  the  stars ;  —  the  very  hour 
He  knows  when  they  shall  darken  or  grow  bright  ; 

***** 
Yet  doth  the  eclipse  of  sorrow  and  of  death 
Come  unforewarned !  " 


49 


Extracts  from  Mr,  Bryant's  Address  in  the  Central  Park,  22th  May,  1878. 

OX    UNVEILING    THE    BUST    OF    MAZZINI,    THE    ITALIAN 

STATESMAN. 

HISTORY,  my  friends,  lias  recorded  the  deeds  of  Mazzini  ou  a  tablet 
which  will  endure  while  the  annals  of  Italy  are  read.  To-day  a  bust  is 
unveiled  which  will  make  millions  familiar  with  the  Divine  image 
stamped  on  the  countenance  of  one  of  the  greatest  men  of  our  times. 

The  idea  of  Italian  unity  and  liberty  was  the  passion  of  Mazzini's 
life.  It  took  possession  of  him  in  youth  ;  it  grew  stronger  as  the  years 
went  on,  and  lost  none  of  its  power  over  him  in  his  age.  Nor  is  it  at 
all  surprising  that  it  should  have  taken  a  strong  hold  on  his  youthful 
imagination. 

I  recollect  very  well  that  when,  forty-four  years  ago,  I  first  entered 
Italy,  —  then  held  down  under  the  weight  of  a  score  of  despotisms,  —  the 
same  idea  forcibly  suggested  itself  to  my  mind  as  I  looked  southward  from 
the  slopes  of  the  mountain  country.  There  lay  a  great  sisterhood  of 
provinces,  requiring  only  a  confederate  republican  government  to  raise 
them  to  the  rank  of  a  great  power,  presenting  to  the  world  a  single 
majestic  front,  and  parcelling  out  the  powers  of  local  legislation  and 
government  among  the  different  neighborhoods  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
educate  the  whole  population  in  a  knowledge  of  the  duties  and  rights 
of  freemen.  There  were  the  industrious  Piedmontese,  the  enterprising 
Genoese,  among  whom  Mazzini  was  born,  —  a  countryman  of  Colum 
bus  ;  there  were  the  ambitious  Venetians  and  the  Lombards,  rejoicing 
in  their  fertile  plains  ;  and  there,  as  the  imagination  followed  the  ridge 
of  the  Apeninnes  toward  the  Strait  of  Messina,  were  the  Tuscans, 
famed  in  letters ;  the  Umbrians,  wearing  in  their  aspect  the  tokens  of 
Latin  descent;  the  Romans,  in  their  centre  of  arts;  the  gay  Neapoli 
tans  ;  and,  further  south,  the  versatile  Sicilians,  over  whose  valleys 
rolls  the  smoke  of  the  most  famous  volcano  in  the  world. 

As  we  traverse  these  regions  in  thought,  we  recognize  them  all  as 
parts  of  one  Italy,  yet  each  inhabited  by  Italians  of  a  different  char- 


50 


acter  from  the  rest ;  all  speaking  Italian,  but  with  a  difference  in  each 
province  ;  each  region  cherishing  its  peculiar  traditions,  which  reach 
hack  to  the  beginning  of  civilization,  and  its  usages  observed  for 
ages. 

Well  might  the  great  man,  whose  bust  we  at  this  time  disclose  to  the 
public  gaze,  be  deeply  moved  by  this  spectacle  of  his  countrymen  and 
kindred  bound  in  the  shackles  of  a  brood  of  local  tyrannies  which  kept 
them  apart,  that  they  might  with  more  ease  be  oppressed. 

When  he  further  considered  the  many  great  men  who  had  risen 
from  time  to  time  in  Italy  as  examples  of  the  intellectual  endowments 
of  her  people,  —  statesmen,  legislators,  men  of  letters,  men  eminent  in 
philosophy,  in  arms,  and  in  arts,  —  I  say  that  he  might  well  claim  for 
his  birthplace  of  such  men  the  unity  of  its  provinces  to  make  it  great, 
and  the  liberty  of  its  people  to  raise  them  up  to  the  standard  of  their 
mental  endowments.  Who  shall  blame  him  —  who  in  this  land  of 
freedom  —  for  demanding  in  behalf  of  such  a  country  a  political  con 
stitution  framed  on  the  most  liberal  pattern  which  the  world  has  seen  ? 

For  such  a  constitution  he  planned  ;  for  that  he  labored  ;  that  object 
he  never  suffered  to  be  out  of  sight.  No  proclaimer  of  a  new  religion 
was  ever  more  faithful  to  his  mission. 

Here,  where  we  have  lately  closed  a  sanguinary  but  successful  war 
in  defence  of  the  unity  of  the  States  which  form  our  Republic;  here, 
where  we  have  just  broken  the  chains  of  three  millions  of  bondsmen, 
is,  above  all  others,  the  place  where  a  memorial  of  the  great  champion 
of  Italian  unity  and  liberty  should  be  set  up  amid  a  storm  of  acclamation 
from  a  multitude  of  freemen. 

Yet,  earnestly  as  he  desired  these  ends,  and  struggled  to  attain 
them,  the  struggle  was  a  noble  and  manly  one.  lie  disdained  to  com 
pass  these  ends  by  base  or  ferocious  means. 

#  *  *  *  %•  *  =* 

There  was  no  trial  he  would  not  endure,  no  sacrifice,  no  labor  he 
would  not  undertake,  no  danger  he  would  not  encounter,  for  the  sake 
of  that  dream  of  his  youth  and  pursuit  of  his  manhood,  —  the  unity  and 
liberty  of  Italy. 

The  country  is  now  united  under  one  political  head,  save  a  portion 
arbitrarily  and  unjustly  added  to  France  ;  and  to  the  public  opinion 
formed  in  Italy  by  the  teachings  of  Mazzini,  the  union  is  in  large 
measure  due.  Italy  has  now  a  constitutional  government,  the  best 
feature  of  which  it  owes  to  the  principles  of  republicanism,  in  which 
Mazzini  trained  a  whole  generation  of  the  young  men  of  Italy,  however 


51 


short  the  present  government   of  the  country  may  fall  of  the  ideal 
standard  at  which  he  aimed. 

One  great  result  for  which  he  labored  was  the  perfect  freedom  of 
religious  worship.  Well  has  he  deserved  the  honors  of  posterity  who, 
holding  enforced  worship  to  be  an  abomination  in  the  sight  of  God, 
took  his  life  in  his  hand  and  went  boldly  forward,  until  the  yoke  of  the 
great  tyranny  exercised  over  the  religious  conscience  in  his  native 
country  was  broken.  Such  a  hero  deserves  a  monument  in  a  land 
where  the  government  knows  no  distinction  between  the  religious  de 
nominations,  and  leaves  their  worship  to  their  consciences. 

I  will  not  say  that  he  whose  image  is  to-day  unveiled  was  prudent  in 
all  his  proceedings  :  nobody  is  ;  timidity  itself  is  not  always  prudence. 
But  wherever  he  went,  and  whatever  he  did,  he  was  a  power  on  earth. 
He  wielded  an  immense  influence  over  men's  minds ;  he  controlled  a 
vast  agency,  he  made  himself  the  centre  of  a  wide  diffusion  of  opinions  ; 
his  footsteps  are  seen  in  the  track  of  history  by  those  who  do  not 
always  reflect  by  whose  feet  they  were  impressed. 

Such  was  the  celerity  of  his  movements,  and  so  sure  the  attachment 
of  his  followers,  that  he  was  the  terror  of  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe. 
Kings  trembled  when  they  heard  that  he  had  suddenly  disappeared 
from  London,  and  breathed  more  freely  when  they  learned  that  he  was< 
in  his  grave.     In  proportion  as  he  was  dreaded,  he  was  maligned. 

Image  of  the  illustrious  champion  of  civil  and  religious  liberty,  cast 
in  enduring  bronze  to  typify  the  imperishable  renown  of  thy  original ! 
Remain  for  ages  yet  to  come  where  we  place  thee,  in  this  resort  of 
millions.  Remain  till  the  day  shall  dawn  —  far  distant  though  it  be  — 
when  the  rights  and  duties  of  human  brotherhood  shall  be  acknowl 
edged  by  all  the  races  of  mankind. 


Such  were  Mr.  Bryant's  last  public  words. 


Extract  from  Harper's  Monthly  for  August,  1878. 
ON   THE   DEATH    OF   WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 

THERE  was  a  mournful  propriety  5n  the  circumstances  of  the  death  of 
Bryant.  He  was  stricken  just  as  he  had  discharged  a  characteristic 
duty  with  all  the  felicity  for  which  he  was  noted ;  and  he  was,  prob 
ably,  never  wholly  conscious  from  that  moment.  Happily,  we  may 
believe  that  he  was  sensible  of  no  decay,  and  his  intimate  friends  had 
noted  little.  He  was  hale,  erect,  and  strong  to  the  last.  All  his  life 
a  lover  of  nature  and  an  advocate  of  liberty,  he  stood  under  the  trees, 
on  a  bright  spring  day,  and  paid  an  eloquent  tribute  to  a  devoted  ser 
vant  of  liberty  in  another  land,  and,  while  his  words  yet  lingered  in  the 
ears  of  those  who  heard  him,  he  passed  from  human  sight. 

There  is,  probably,  no  eminent  man  in  the  country  upon  whose  life, 
and  genius,  and  career  the  verdict  of  his  fellow-citizens  would  be  more 
immediate  and  unanimous. 

His  character  and  life  had  a  simplicity  and  austerity  of  outline  that 
had  become  universally  familiar,  like  a  neighboring  mountain  or  sea. 

His  convictions  were  very  strong,  and  his  temper  uncompromising. 
He  was  independent  beyond  most  Americans.  Bryant  carried  with 
him  the  mien  and  the  atmosphere  of  antique  public  virtue.  He  seemed 
a  living  embodiment  of  that  simplicity  and  severity  and  dignity  which 
we  associate  with  the  old  republics.  A  wise  stranger  would  have 
called  him  a  man  nurtured  in  republican  and  upon  republican  tra 
ditions. 


53 


Extract  from  Scribner's  Monthly  for  August,  1878. 
ON   THE   DEATH   OF   WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 

NOTHING  can  be  purer,  nothing  more  natural,  nothing  more  enduring 
than  his  reputation ;  for  it  was  based  in  real  genius,  genuine  character, 
and  legitimate  achievement. 

In  his  own  personal  character  and  history  he  associated  probity  with 
genius,  purity  with  art,  and  the  sweetest  Christianity  with  the  highest 
culture. 

He  was  a  great  man  every  way,  —  great  in  his  gifts,  great  in  his  re 
ligious  faith,  great  in  his  works,  great  in  his  symmetry,  great  in  his 
practical  handling  of  the  things  of  personal,  social,  and  political  life. 
Great  in  his  experience  of  life,  great  in  his  wisdom,  great  in  his  good 
ness  and  sweetness,  and  great  in  his  modesty  and  simplicity. 

We  know  of  no  man  dying  in  America  who  has  been  worthier  than 
he  of  public  eulogies  and  public  monuments.  We  know  of  nothing 
more  creditable  to  his  countrymen  than  the  universal  respect  that  has 
been  paid  to  his  memory. 


"  THE  earth  may  ring,  from  shore  to  shore, 

With  echoes  of  a  glorious  name; 
But  he,  whose  loss  our  tears  deplore, 
Has  left  behind  him,  —  more  than  fame." 


THE  funeral  services  took  place  June  14,  at  All  Souls'  Church, 
where  Mr.  Bryant,  through  many  years,  had  been  a  constant  attend 
ant  and  honored  member.  The  services  were  read  by  the  pastor,  Rev. 
Dr.  Bellows,  who  delivered  the  funeral  address. 

The  body  was  then  carried  to  Roslyn,  and  laid  in  its  last  resting- 
place,  by  the  side  of  his  wife,  while  a  company  of  little  children 
gathered  around  the  grave,  placing  upon  it  flowers  as  a  tribute  of 
respect  and  affection. 


One  by  one  we  miss  the  voices  which  we  loved  so  well  to  hear ; 
One  by  one  the  kindly  faces  in  the  shadow  disappear." 


LOAN  DEPT 


LD  2lA-50m-U  '62 
<D3279slO)476B 


P102092 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


